3:00 a.m.

It took 10 minutes for their argument to end, 9 for the apology to come, and 8 for Stanford to lock the doors. He continued counting down in his mind, as though there could be an end to the irreconcilability of his brother. While this 'new' Stan wasn't as angst-driven and pent up from memories, he was easily frustrated, and as hotheaded as ever. It was hardwired into his neural database to be the same personality; he was incredibly gentle, and surprisingly kind (which Ford forgot somewhere along the years passed by), but undeniably quick to frustrate and anger. Stanford was the man for the job, if there could be any, he knew his brother inside and out (when he was younger), he felt as though it were almost.. The same as it had been before without Stanley being able to remember all the horrible stuff that had happened to them.

Ford felt worse, furthermore, knowing neither of them had done much to keep the family albums alive, or to document experiences that weren't of any scientific/blackmail significance. He felt as though if he were able to just sit down and read more albums, then maybe it would help Stanley form new neuropathways to solidify the same connections he felt with those he knew before the weirdmageddon. All they had was Mabel's summer album, which contained a series of exciting events and hot summer days; and each time he went through the album, the worse he felt for taking this finally happy man away from the kids. Stanley had been searching for him all those years, and yet, he took better care of his great niece and nephew than when Ford had shown up. It almost felt as though Ford had robbed Stanley of his 'dream', except someone had to pick up the pieces, and it couldn't be his amnesiac brother.

God, the clock ticks by so slowly... Ford could practically narrate a symphony of his emotions at this point, as he dove deeper into the shortcomings of his brilliant mind. It almost taunted him, dark black lines followed by smaller, slits like the eyes of a demon he fought for so many years- the demon that fed off of people's internal demons. He retched, clutching his nightshirt, squeezing his eyes shut so as to forget the empty feeling that had left in lieu of the weirdmageddon.

3:01 a.m.

It was practically killing him, only a minute had passed, and he found himself less and less prone to sleep. Even with everything presumably at rest, he felt the presence of a lack of purpose, a lack of point to all the research he had done- for what had he learned other than he had wronged his brother as much as he had been wronged. In some twisted fate did he have to come full-circle to retire with the happiness of just being here? Was he supposed to rest his brilliant mind and be content with.. just being alive? It seemed that he had worked tirelessly, endlessly, to have another opportunity to explore and learn and travel.. and no one to do it with him. It was a crossroads, he swore, another demon inside of his heart tearing at the coils of his tightly wound nerves- telling him to leave, telling him to stay, telling him that he had let Fiddleford practically decay without him.. and next would be the twinkle he took from his brother's eye.

He decided that staying awake thinking would be useless, a hot cup of coffee and a shot of vodka would dull his senses just enough to be able to sit and watch the sun rise without falling apart. One shot turned to two, to three, to a glass of wine, to another, till he couldn't count how many fingers he had... He stumbled to where Stanley lay in his respective bedroom, and sat criss-cross-applesauce at the foot of the bed; his watchful eyes making sure no demons come to his brother as he slept.

Stanley's Dream Sequence...

What round table he sat at, surrounded by the faceless bodies of the Cipher Circle. He craned his thick neck to each of their blank slate expressions, each having not a nose, nor mouth, nor eyes, or brows to furrow. Knit together by the seams of nightmarish ability to comprehend, but inability to respond. Stan found himself eerily discomforted by the breathing, moving, and all too human figures of Pacifica, Mabel, Dipper, Robbie, Wendy, Soos, and all the others... Even Stanford. His face had only a mouth, "Grammar, Stanley."

Letters floated from his mouth, leabin A, and formin NG ELY- the two Ms broke into pieces, 'I', AM. - Stanley quickly pushed back from his seat and turned, "Where are you!? Triangle Bastard!" He screamed as the faceless nameless beings all developed but one eye, and their silhouettes turned into dastardly stretched triangles that rose to consume the bodies until there was only darkness.

A single flame lit, and the room had changed... The setting was completely like no other, he turned his entire body to the flame adjacent to him.

"Take me somewhere that isn't these stupid dreams!" He screamed to the floating candle, his mouth dry and his eyes wet. Its flame dimmed. He reached back an arm and threw a hard punch-

Suddenly he had made skin to skin contact with someone, whose scruffy hair spikes fell in his face as he hit the floor. "Stanley! Hijo de puta!" The rasp drunken man snarled, baring his sharp canines and hardy shiner- blood spurted from his split lower lip and the highest point of his cheekbone. "Hijo de puta!" The man screamed again, pulling his partially clothed and spindly body from where he lay. And picked up the romantic candle that illuminated the room, and threw it straight at him.

Just as he breathed in, suddenly the room hot and suffocating- he woke.

"Stanley! Stanley!" Ford shook his brother, whose eyes shot open as he sat straight up. Stanley's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach, it happened again, his brother was here as he had woken him. But there was something off about him this time, his breath smelt sour, his eyes drooped, and a light swell coming to his strong solid jaw. Not again...

"I'm sorry." Stan muttered, "I don't know what these dreams mean..." He took in slow deep breaths, just as Ford had taught him. Being with Ford brought him back to some hot sunburnt summer, he could almost feel the sea breeze wafting in his nose from the thought of it. Surely this was a vague recollection of things that he associated with Ford. His brother. He accepted that on account of the fact they were identical, and also the matter that the last thing he recalled was being dazed in a forest. Something terrible must have happened for him to lose his memory. "Maybe I'm just a senile old man now..." He mused as his muscles relaxed and Ford scooted closer.

"Stanley.. I haven't told you much of what happened bee." He paused. "Before you lost your mem'ry. What have you been dreaming about?" He fought the urge to grab a pen and pencil, to calculate theories and analyze Stanley's dreams. It looked like the old brain would have to do. Stan pulled a slight face, reaching out to flick Ford in the nose.

"I might have lost my memory but I know you're drunk, Ford."

Caught! Ford nodded slowly, "And?", he responded with the slightest hint of sass.

"Nevermind. If you think it'll make me better to talk about my feelings, you've got the wrong idea. I've been dreaming about things that don't make sense, I don't know if it's things that happened or just really crazy-"

"Representations of things you perceive mixed with symbols of the past!?" Ford exclaimed, with a voice that was definitely not bedroom-sleepover whispering like Stan's. The two brothers stared at each other for a bit, Ford's arms still held up in the air from the excitement and overstatement of his last sentence. Then Stanley broke into bitter laughter.

"You're such a doofus, Ford, I swear." He chuckled, and suddenly at the embarrassingly loud laughter of his brother, his chuckle turned genuine. "Jesuuss! Ford! We'll talk in the morning, okay?"

"It is morning, Stanley! It's morning somewhere every day!"

"Okay, bud, you need to go to bed."

"But not for the name of science! I will find a cure Stanley, I can find a cure..." He whispered softly. Stan hardly understood what the other said

"Yeah. Love you too, brother. Now go the fuck to sleep."